Dear wind,
If you could speak my language, would you let your eyes be mine?
Would you let me in on the fortune that you’ve gathered through time?
Would you whisper words that are forbidden to my mortal ears?
Wise wind,
Tell me of the earth’s groans as a blade of grass pushes out of it.
How the mountain peak feels when the sun draws away her warm fingers.
Tell me the truth about love, does it really exist?
And the dead. How do they fare? What do they eat?
Who tells the orange tree when to bloom?
What do you see through dimly lit windows of slum houses?
Does wretchedness have a sense of humor?
Describe to me how it feels to cradle a cloud, or to take a sip of silver lining.
What do the ants think of man?
Speak to me of death and damnation, must one give away life so one can come alive?
Relay to me the stories told around circles of fire in hollowed out insides of living mountains.
Let’s discuss lightning and floods and hurricanes and earthquakes.
Sketch me the face of the Egyptian smith to whom I was married so I may recall the lives that I’ve lived. Someone said that reincarnation is in every breath that you take. Does that explain deja vu?
Teach me to harness the glow in the eyes of a cat in the dead of night.
Remind me of Pompey. The metaphor for events that reduce life to nothingness, and ridicule the memories of it, and delete the traces of it.
I do not wish to converse on the ills of man. I do not care to share the details of poisoned oceans, genocides, the dying earth or the monopolization of wealth by selfish, soulless beings. I have no curiosity for the dark twisted spaces of humanity.
What indeed is at the end of a rainbow? Is that the metaphor for “curiosity begets travel and travel is food for the soul”?
Food for my soul is a pot of gold.
Is song to bird as language is to man?
Who thought of the colors that exist?
Eternal friend
May I call you friend? Will you be my “anda ndorr”?
How many dimensions of earthly existence have you blown upon?
Are you confined as I am to this phase, with the shallow-hearted and material-minded?
Every speck of dust is a miraculous wonder that can drive you insane if you think of it too much. Just like a little bit too much light might fry a moth crisp, regardless of their boundless love.
You can find more of the author’s work on her blog, Of Womannes And Wild Dreams.
